


This Side of Paradise

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-15 01:44:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8037343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: Okay, he tells himself as they sink down onto the couch. You can do this. See? Easy. Normal. But, like every other poor asshole on every other sitcom, he’s clearly overestimated himself.   Or, the one where Clarke gets caught in the rain and has to wear Bellamy's clothes.





	This Side of Paradise

**Author's Note:**

> it’s been a really weird time for me writing-wise. inspiration and creativity don’t seem to want to be playing nice with each other, and only come to visit me when the other’s left my head.
> 
> sometimes you just need to sit down, say 'fuck it', and bang out 2.5k of pure fluff.
> 
> (title from the Hayley Kiyoko song bc i've been listening to her nonstop out of impatience for Citrine to arrive – WHERE IT AT, HAYLES)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Clarke? Hey, the rain’s pretty heavy, so maybe you should just stay home. I can come to yours instead. Or you could call an Uber or something. Yeah, just don’t walk here, okay? … Fuck, you’re already walking here, aren’t you? Goddammit. Look, just— just be careful, okay—”

 

Bellamy sighs sharply as the beep cuts him off, running a frustrated hand through his hair.

 

He doesn’t know why he’s even bothering — Clarke never checks her messages, anyway. He’d left it as a last resort, seeing as she hadn’t answered any of his calls or texts over the last ten minutes.

 

He peers out the kitchen window, grimacing slightly at the sheets of rain sluicing down across the city.

 

He nods to himself, picking up his phone and shoving it into his pocket. He could just go out and meet her halfway, he figures as he strides towards the front door, pausing to yank his coat off its hook and look for an umbrella. Better than hanging around in his warm apartment, while Clarke wanders around in the downpour with what he’s reasonably confident to be no jacket and no umbrella. 

 

Jamming a beanie over his head, he checks his phone one last time.

 

Nothing.

 

Huffing to himself, he pushes his phone back into his pocket and wraps his hand around the door knob, wrenching it open to find—

 

“ _Clarke!_ ” He almost drops his umbrella, before shoving it aside and reaching out to pull her into the apartment by her raised arm, fist lightly clenched and poised to knock.

 

“Have I missed something?” she asks, blinking up at him through waterlogged blonde locks as she lets herself be ushered in. “Are we going somewhere?”

 

He kicks the door shut behind him, guiding her further into the apartment with a hand on her back. “No, I just— _Jesus_ , are you okay?”

 

She shivers in the middle of his living room, completely soaked all over. “Yeah, I’m f-fine. It’s r-raining, by the way.”

 

“No shit,” he half-scolds, already hurtling down the hallway. He half-strides, half-jogs back with a fresh towel, wrapping it around her quivering shoulders. “You should have stayed home.”

 

She rolls her eyes. “Well ex _cuse_ me for not being able to predict the _weather_ ,” she retorts.

 

He’s almost embarrassed to admit how _relieved_ he is. Sarcasm is a sure sign that Clarke’s fine.

 

“Yeah, we’ll work on that,” he says, hand pressing to her back again to urge her towards the hallway. “Come on, you need a hot shower.”

 

“N-no arguments th-there,” she says, stepping willingly into the bathroom.

 

He closes the door, listening carefully for the sound of the spray of the shower starting up before finally letting a deep, cathartic breath escape his lips.

 

“Oh, right,” he says to himself, one hand reaching up to remove his beanie as he moves away from the door and towards his bedroom. She’ll be needing something to wear, since her own clothes are drenched right through.

 

He opens his closet, frowning at his mildly disorganised collection of clothes. He’s still got a couple articles of Octavia’s old clothes for whenever she drops in to crash on the couch, but he honestly doubts they’d fit Clarke, seeing as the blonde is more — uh — well, _curvier_.

 

After a couple minutes of rummaging, he pulls out a blue hoodie — an old favourite that he used to wear every other day — along with a plain T-shirt, and a pair of soft, dark sweatpants he likes to save for when he’s feeling under the weather.

 

He’s about to close the closet door when he pauses, and reaches for a pair of plain cotton boxers. It’s an older pair he doesn’t really wear anymore, but it’s clean and free of any questionable stains. Better safe than sorry, he reasons as he closes the door and heads back out into the hallway. Clarke might not appreciate having to go commando in his sweatpants.

 

He knocks firmly on the door, making sure to balance the small pile of clothes in his other arm.

 

“Clarke?” he calls over the sound of the shower.

 

The water pressure dies down a considerable amount. “Yeah?”

 

“I got you some dry clothes,” he says loudly.

 

“Great, thanks!” he hears her shout. “Just leave them on the counter or something?”

 

He blinks. Frankly, he’d half-expected to just leave it outside the door.

 

“Okay,” he calls back. He pauses. “I’m coming in, okay?”

 

“Okay!” she yells, the water pressure ramping back up again.

 

He slowly turns the door knob, creaking it open as carefully and soundlessly as he can manage. He pours all of his concentration into ignoring the mostly opaque shower curtain across the bathroom, keeping both eyes determinedly fixed on the counter by the door.

 

“They’re on the counter,” he announces, finding it unexpectedly difficult to keep his tone level.

 

“Okay, thanks!” her voice echoes over the shower spray, and it’s a _gargantuan_ effort to stop from automatically glancing in her direction.

 

“Sure,” he says, gathering up the wet clothes she’s piled in the sink and hastening towards the door. “Take your time.”

 

Once he’s got her clothes in the wash and the kettle going, he looses another much-needed breath.

 

“Get a grip, Blake,” he mutters as he lifts a hand to rake through his hair, nails dragging across his scalp with unnecessary force. “It’s just Clarke.”

 

Except it’s _not_ just Clarke.

 

It’s Clarke Griffin, who’s smart and beautiful and witty and strong and wise. It’s Clarke Griffin, his best friend who knows him better than anybody, the person who’s his favourite in the world, even when they’re fighting. It’s Clarke Griffin, the girl who dribbles maple syrup on her scrambled eggs — _‘because it’s fucking delicious, okay?’_

 

It’s Clarke Griffin, whom he hasn’t seen all week because both of them have been unusually busy with work, and he can’t believe he misses this much after just a few measly days of separation.

 

He’s been so careful. _So_ careful all these years, with reining himself in and reminding himself not to do anything stupid. With warning himself not to throw their friendship away for a shot at indulging his silly fantasies. With telling himself that he can live without having never kissed Clarke Griffin, but there’s absolutely no possible way he could survive without having her in his life and being in hers.

 

So he’s going to forget all about the fact that she’s just down the hall, naked in his bathroom. He’s going to forget all about how he’d just been in the same room as her bare body, separated by mere _feet_ and one pathetically thin shower curtain. He’s _especially_ going to forget all about how she’d been the one to fucking _invite_ him in.

 

He’s going to forget all that, and he’s going to make them each a nice cup of tea, so they can both relax and—

 

“Bellamy?”

 

He turns.

 

And actually _feels_ his mind going completely, utterly, hopelessly _blank_.

 

She’s standing there, all squeaky clean and rosy-cheeked from her shower… in his blue hooded sweatshirt.

 

In _just_ his blue hooded sweatshirt. 

 

It takes him a good three seconds to realise that she’s speaking.

 

“Sorry?” he blurts out. He winces inwardly at the unexpected loudness of his voice.

 

Clarke blinks. “I said, I left the towel in the laundry hamper,” she repeats slowly. “What should I do with these, though?”

 

She’s holding up the T-shirt and the dark sweatpants, both still neatly folded.

 

The boxers are nowhere to be found.

 

So she’s wearing _something_ under his hoodie.

 

He doesn’t know if he’s more relieved, or disappointed.

 

 _Relieved_ , he scolds silently. _Relieved, relieved, relieved_.

 

He almost believes it.

 

“Uh, I’ll just put those back,” he says, reaching out to take the clothes from her. He’s especially careful not to linger, letting his fingers brush over hers for no less than a couple of milliseconds.

 

“Okay,” she says easily. Obliviously. “Tea, right?”

 

“Yep,” he calls over his shoulder, forcing himself to adopt as nonchalant a tone as he can manage. “You know where it is?”

 

He hears her scoff loudly as he steps into his bedroom, accompanied by the sound of cupboards opening and closing. “I haven’t been here in two _weeks,_ Bellamy,” she half-yells. “Not two _years_.”

 

He’s already grinning by the time he makes his way back to the kitchen, finding it easier to relax the more they slip back into banter mode. “Yeah, well, you also spread mayo all over your PB&J last week, so you’ll have to forgive me for taking extra caution.”

 

She rolls her eyes, grinning as she pours hot water into two mugs. “I was _tired_ , you asshole. Mayo does _not_ go with jelly, by the way. Do not recommend, at all.”

 

He scrunches his nose. “Why do you even _have_ mayo? You hate mayo.”

 

She shrugs, reaching for a packet of brown sugar from the little bowl he keeps on the counter. Yeah, he’s one of those people who insists on collecting the free stuff instead of buying his own sugar. Sue him.

 

“It’s the same jar of mayo.”

 

He stares at her. “From last _year_? Jesus, Clarke, throw that shit _away_!”

 

“I forgot!” she exclaims, her tone matter-of-fact as she empties the packet into a mug and stirs it in, sliding it over to him when she’s done. “I threw the sandwich away after that first bite, anyway. Seriously, mayo and jelly is probably the worst combination on _earth_.”

 

And on it goes, Bellamy relaxing more into their comfortable, familiar back-and-forth as they move to the living room.

 

 _Okay_ , he tells himself as they sink down onto the couch. _You can do this. See? Easy. Normal_.

 

They put on some _Brooklyn Nine-Nine_ , and settle back into the couch, mugs of tea clasped in their hands.

 

But, like every other poor asshole on every other sitcom, he’s clearly overestimated himself.

 

It’s hard enough to pay attention to anything when Clarke’s around, bumping into his arm or leaning into his shoulder with her quick-witted comments and her flashing blue eyes and her _smile_ , sweetness and wickedness lining the curve of her lips.

 

It’s even harder when she’s all pressed up against his side on his couch, sharing mugs of hot tea while the rain howls faintly in the background, the heavy smattering of raindrops against his windowpane somehow making his already warm apartment feel several times cosier than usual.

 

It’s goddamn _impossible_ when she’s doing all that _while_ dressed in nothing but his favourite hoodie and a flimsy pair of cotton boxers, hair still half-damp and smelling of _his_ pine-scented shampoo.

 

 _Normal_ , he reminds himself, struggling to steady the rhythm of his breathing. _Easy._

 

He manages fine enough, he thinks.

 

But the second the episode ends, Clarke sets aside her mug, turning to look at him as the next episode loads in the queue.

 

“Hey,” she says, brows furrowed, “where were you going, anyway?”

 

He frowns, confused. “Where was I going when?”

 

She rolls her eyes, reaching out to grab the remote, turning down the volume as the next episode starts up. “When I got here, genius,” she says, turning back to arch a brow at him. “You were all bundled up. You had your umbrella and everything. Where were you going?”

 

He averts his gaze under the guise of setting his own empty mug aside. “I was going to, uh, look for you.”

 

He doesn’t look at her, but he can practically _feel_ her frowning, the crease between her brows deepening. “What?”

 

He shifts under her scrutiny, rubbing his palms on his sweatpants restlessly. “I just thought — I don’t know, I’d just head in your direction and maybe somehow find you along the—

 

The rest of his stilted explanation is cut off by the press of her lips on his.

 

He stills under the sensation of her hands curling around the sides of his face, fingertips dipping into his curls.

 

She pulls back after a second, laughing breathlessly at his shell-shocked expression.

 

“You are,” she says, beaming fondly, “ _so_ ridiculous.”

 

“So you’ve said before,” he says automatically, staring into her lovely face with disbelief. “Was that— uh, what?”

 

She smiles, hands slipping down to cup the back of his neck. “That was ‘thank you’. You noble idiot.”

 

“Oh,” he says, trying to process the thrill of her hands on his skin and the tinge of defeat at her words. Honestly, all he wants to do is to kiss her again — properly, for _real_. But all she wants to do is… thank him.

 

“Okay,” he says after a few long moments, in response to Clarke’s questioning look. “You’re… welcome.”

 

For some reason, Clarke seems even more amused by his poor attempt at hiding his dejection.

 

“Bellamy,” she says patiently, fingers curling into his hair again — and _Jesus Christ_ , but it’s an effort to refrain from touching her. “Just to be clear, I don’t go around kissing everybody I say ‘thank you’ to.”

 

His gaze snaps up to hers, eyes widening. “Does—” He pauses, clearing his throat at the sound of his own rough voice. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

 

Clarke rolls her eyes, affectionate and exasperated. “It _means_ if you don’t kiss me right now, you’re not noble anymore — you’re just an idiot.”

 

He grins, turning towards her and catching her by the waist. “Well, in _that_ case,” he says, a wave of pure joy rushing through him at the sight of her bright smile right before his lips land on hers.

 

They kiss for a long minute — a proper, _real_ kiss, all lips and tongues and wet, heated contact — until the side-by-side angle gets too awkward. Banding an arm around her waist, he hauls her into his lap, smiling wide against her mouth when her leg swings round eagerly to straddle his lap, her bare thighs squeezing around his hips.

 

She sighs when he moves to her neck, laving his tongue over the heated skin. “God, I’ve missed you,” she says breathlessly, fingers winding tighter into his hair.

 

“Question,” he announces, pulling back from her neck. She whines in disapproval, but looks down at him expectantly.

 

“What?” she asks, her unmistakable breathlessness softening the effect of the frown creasing her brow..

 

He grins, his hands slipping under the hem of her — _his_ hoodie to find the bare skin of her waist. “So,” he says conversationally, fingers kneading the skin around her hipbones, “you really think I’m noble?”

 

She rolls her eyes. “Bellamy. I’m in your lap. I’m practically _naked_ under this sweatshirt. For some godforsaken reason, I’m _still_ not _completely_ naked yet.” She nudges him with her hips, grinding into the bulge of his hardness with a pointed arch of her brow.“You _really_ think this is a good time to be fucking _noble_?”

 

“Yeah,” he says, strained, as his hands close over her hips to still her movements. “Yeah, okay, fuck noble.”

 

She laughs all the way down the hallway to his bedroom, earning her a playful slap on the ass right before she’s tossed onto his bed.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The next morning, he stumbles into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and can’t help but grin dopily when he sees her already in his hoodie.

 

Five minutes later, he’s standing at the stove making breakfast when she winds her arms around his waist, whispering into his ear that this time, she’s _completely_ naked under his sweatshirt.

 

Their eggs get burnt beyond all hope of redemption — but frankly, neither of them could possibly care less.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> as always, thank you for reading my Bellarke nonsense! feel free to leave a kudos/comment cos i'd love to hear what you think/feel/want to be when you grow up
> 
> come find me [on tumblr](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com) so we can be chillin' like ice cream fillin'


End file.
